Текст книги "The Girl of Sand & Fog"
Автор книги: Susan Ward
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
CHAPTER 27
An hour later, I’m full of tequila shots and whooping it up on the dance floor. The vibration from the music and the alcohol pumping through my veins makes me feel good for the first time since I left California. The small area beneath the DJ is hot, crowded, the lights are flashing, and the guy I’m dancing with definitely has moves. His body rubs against me and I melt into him.
His hands tighten on my waist, pulling my ass to brush against his cock as we bob with the beat. He kisses my neck.
I tense.
Too familiar.
I pull away from him without missing a step.
I open my eyes.
Oh shit.
Graham Carson is standing on the edge of the floor with his tree-trunk-sized arms crossed in front of his chest. How the hell did he find me? Delta Force training, no doubt. He looks pissed.
I wait until the song finishes. I tell my partner I have to go, and then cut through the people on the floor. I stop in front of my bodyguard. It’s so obvious what Graham is with his iron body neatly encased in all black. I can feel more than a few people staring at us.
I stare up at him. “Can’t you be cool for one night and let me have fun?”
He doesn’t even look at me, just continues to surveil the crowd. “Being cool is not part of my job, Kaley. Making sure nothing happens to you, that’s my job.”
I roll my eyes. Yep, he’s angry.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask, frustrated.
His eyes bore into me. “Bin Laden was hard to find. You’re easy. Predictable. Nearest place you’re not allowed to be where you can do something that you shouldn’t. This club is four blocks from the hotel. I don’t take you for a long walk kind of girl. But you’re smart. You skipped the car service and the taxis thinking that would slow me down on finding you. No trail. Nice touch.”
I flush.
“I just want one evening without you guys making me feel like a total freak show. One night alone. I’m only dancing. Can’t you cut out and pretend you didn’t find me? I won’t tell anyone.”
His gaze shifts to me. “A girl like you shouldn’t be hanging around in clubs filled with assholes like this. Boy, your instincts suck. This is not a place for you to be, Kaley. No, I can’t pretend I didn’t find you. Your dad would kick my ass if I left you here.”
My temper flares.
“Oh. A girl like me? What the fuck does that mean?”
His expression changes. It smothers my anger.
“A beautiful, intelligent, talented girl with a rich father and every opportunity in life. You shouldn’t be risking all that to hang around with low-life players like these. They’ll only use you. Hurt you. Take advantage of you. You deserve better. Don’t forget that.”
I take my lower lip between my teeth. That was really sweet.
“Do you want to dance since you’re here? Or is dancing not Delta Force sanctioned?”
“Not sanctioned,” he says.
I make a face.
That was a little funny.
He could have given me a laugh.
I try again. “Have one shot of tequila and I’ll go willingly.”
He gives me a pained look. “The only thing we’re doing is going back to the hotel.”
I exhale. I wish he’d just lighten up. We’re in Australia. How dangerous can that be?
“Nope. Not leaving without having a shot with you. Consider that an order, solider.”
Nothing.
And why is his gaze shifting around the room that way?
“Hey, I just want to have fun for one night—” Something crashes in the club. All around me voices grow louder and people start running. I turn my head to find a glass shattered against the ground only inches from my feet.
“No bitch walks away from me,” I hear shouted from behind me.
I look over my shoulder.
Is that the guy I’ve been dancing with?
Oh fuck, is that a knife in his hand?
The way he is charging toward me fills me with panic.
I fling myself into Graham’s chest, wrapping my arms around him. I tense, waiting for my bodyguard to do something. Waiting. Waiting. Why the fuck hasn’t he sprung into action. He just stands there. Nothing. I hear loud voices. I turn my face. My hip-hop Casanova is five feet away arguing with another girl.
I stare up at Graham.
He shakes his head at me. “Don’t ever do that again.”
I blush. Crap. “Which part?”
“All of it,” he instructs harshly. “You don’t cover me with your body. Not ever. You freeze if there’s trouble. I cover you with me. You really need to move your hand. Your fingers are where my gun is. Please, relax your arms and step back now.”
“Gun?”
He grins. “No gun. Not in Australia. I just thought it would get you to move your fingers from my ass faster.”
I grimace and release my hold on him.
“We’re leaving. Now, Kaley.”
The way he says that leaves me no room to argue. But in honesty I don’t want to stay any longer. The last few minutes have pretty much a buzzkill.
Graham is right. Galling, but right. This is not my type of scene. Most of the guys are definitely losers. I should never have come here.
I let him guide me out of the club. The cool air outside sends the alcohol rocketing through me. I’m suddenly feeling off-balance. I must have drunk more than I realized. I’m buzzed. Nope, beyond buzzed. I’m sloshed.
Graham’s hand closes around my arm and I’m shoved into a black SUV, the door slams behind me then he climbs in up front beside the driver. He won’t even sit with me, and I hate riding alone in back.
Nice touch. Message received. You’re pissed off. Fine.
It’s a short drive to the hotel. My door is jerked wide and I climb from the backseat to join Graham on the curb. The lobby is nearly empty when we enter. I’m escorted into an elevator and he uses his card in the panel so he can select the penthouse floor. The ‘P’ lights up and it flashes in my head. Why I broke the rules and cut out tonight. Why I don’t want to return tonight to my dad’s suite.
The doors close and the elevator starts to move. I push the hair from my face. I lean back against the wall. Graham looks totally disgruntled.
I stare up at him. “I don’t want to go to my room. Can we go hang around in your room for a while?”
His eyes flash. “No way. You are not going to my room. I like my job. I need it.”
I push off the wall and step into him. “You also like me,” I whisper. “Don’t take me back. Not yet.”
He eases away from me and shrugs. “Not doing it. And of course, I like you. I wouldn’t risk taking a bullet for a client unless I liked them.”
My brows hitch up. “Bullet, my ass. You probably haven’t carried a gun since you became a bodyguard.”
The dimples appear in his cheeks.
My eyes widen. “Busted. Can’t we just have some fun for once.”
“Kaley—”
“I want to go to your room. Spend the night there.”
He shakes his head and doesn’t look directly at me. Fuck, he’s a gorgeous guy. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, then wet it with my tongue, and his breathing changes. A thrill pulses through me.
He’s saying no, but wants to say yes.
He needs a push. “If you want to keep your job, taking me back to my dad’s suite drunk isn’t a good move. It’s better to let me sleep it off somewhere.”
We stare at each other wordlessly. His jaw flexes. His muscles tense, but his gaze doesn’t lower from mine and I’m not sure what he’s debating: the point I just made or whether he wants to risk his job and fuck me. Then I watch as he takes me in from head to toe, and then stopping at my eyes again.
He leans around me, his arm brushing against me as he hits a button for a different floor.
“Just for a little while,” he groans in warning. “And only if you promise to drink some coffee to sober up a bit.”
I ease my body into him. “Anything you say. Coffee. I’m up for anything.”
The doors open and he jerks back from me.
He motions me out of the elevator and into the hallway. The floor is noisy and crowded. I recognize more than a few guys, roadies and security, traveling on tour with us. I lean against the doorframe as he slides his card into the lock.
He looks at me. “A few cups of coffee then I’m taking you up to the penthouse. That’s all I’m up for tonight. Are we clear?”
Graham’s eyes are serious.
Probably worried about his job again.
“Roger that, solider,” I say in a silly way.
I step around him and into the room.
Graham switches on the lights and locks the door behind him. I start wandering around the mini-suite. It’s nicer than I thought it would be, considering he’s just a bodyguard. I look through an open doorway. Separate bedroom. King-size bed. Nothing like the penthouse, but it’s nice.
I drop down to sit in front of a coffee table. I hear water in the next room. Christ, he really is making me coffee.
“The security guys. Do you work for my dad all the time or are you contractors?” I ask.
“Contractors.” He pokes his head out of what I assume is some sort of small kitchenette. “Your dad hired me from mercenaries’-world-dot-com.”
My body goes cold. The way everyone takes drive-by pokes at me over Kaley’s-World.com is past old. Worse, it reminds me why I’m trapped on tour with my dad, what I did to both my parents, why I lost Bobby, and why I feel so miserable all the time.
I lift my brows and struggle for a neutral response. “Very funny. Ha, ha. Did you think that up on your own or did one of the PR assistants write it up so you’d have that one handy to use tonight?”
His smile fades.
His gaze softens.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Kaley. I just wanted to make you laugh.”
I stare down at my fingers. “Well, it didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry. How do you want your coffee?”
“Just black.
He disappears from view.
Graham comes back into the sitting room and sets two mugs of coffee on the table.
I close my hands around mine. The warmth burns. It feels good. I can almost not feel the tears threatening in my throat.
“So why are you a mercenary for hire? Being a bodyguard must be a little dull after Delta Force,” I tease and earn for the effort the dimples back in his cheeks.
He laughs. “Dull? Hardly. You are anything but dull, Kaley.”
My stomach flutters.
“Then why don’t you want me here with you?” I whisper. “Why don’t you ever make a move on me? I can tell you like me, but you don’t do it.”
Oh crap.
I didn’t intend to ask that.
Graham studies me for a moment and then climbs from the chair. He settles on the ground near me, his posture open, accessible and relaxed, but his body a neutral distance away from me.
“Because I’m not the right kind of guy for you, Kaley. I know it. But more importantly, you know it.”
My cheeks burn.
I brush at my face.
Damn.
Tears.
I feel an arm slip around my shoulders. My body is eased into his. His lips are in my hair. “It’s going to be all right, Kaley. What happened tonight to get you upset enough to take off?”
I peek up at him.
I sniff.
The words gather in my head.
No, don’t say them.
I sink into his chest, sniffling more. The words start fighting their way out. “My dad hates me and he should. I’ve destroyed my mom’s happiness. I’ve ruined their marriage. My dad’s out fucking Jen tonight. My mom won’t forgive that when she finds out and my family is a mess and it’s all my fault. And I’m surrounded by people all day every day and I have never felt lonelier in my life. I don’t even have anything to go home to when I’m finally free of this tour. My boyfriend dumped me…”
He tightens his hold on me. His hand moves on my back in comforting strokes.
“Shush, Kaley. Your dad doesn’t hate you. That’s the first thing you’ve gotten wrong. Also, he’s not with Jen tonight. So you can forget that worry. I can’t tell you where he is, but he’s definitely not doing anything you should blame yourself for. Your family is here and together. That’s more than most families are. If you don’t want to be lonely, stop walling everyone out and try letting people in. As for your boyfriend, crap, I don’t have anything to say about that. He’s an idiot if he dumped you—”
I choke out a laugh. “No, you’re wrong. Bobby is wonderful. I’m the idiot. But it was really sweet that you said that. In case you haven’t noticed I am feeling really bad tonight.”
He nods and makes a pout that’s sort of sexy on such a ruggedly handsome man. “I know. You don’t hide it very well. In fact, you’re pretty awful at hiding what you’re thinking and feeling.”
I laugh more comfortably and give him a push. I drop my face in my hands, clutch my hair, and groan. “God, I have the sorriest life ever.”
His hands close on my cheeks.
He turns me to look at him.
His thumbs lightly brush my jaw. “You don’t have a sorry life. You know what you want and you can have it. You know who you love and you can have them. Don’t you know how fortunate that is? And you are one amazing girl, Kaley Stanton. You’re going to do great things in life. I know it.”
He places a light kiss on my lips. It’s friendly and nothing more. It makes my emotions twirl faster. I feel like a jerk for always being a pain in the ass to him and even for my oh so obvious flirting.
God, what’s wrong with me? By now I should have figured out a way to stop doing one dumb thing after another.
I cry harder.
He folds me against his chest. “Kaley, I’m never wrong. Trust me. It’s going to be OK.”
But it’s not. No matter how true Graham Carson can make that feel by holding me in his powerful arms.
God, I wish I could go back in time.
I wish it were as easy to rewind your life as it is to rewind a video.
I would never have ruined my mother’s happiness.
I would never have made that hideous, shocking website and streaming video.
I never would have hurt and humiliated my father.
I never would have been foolish enough to lose Bobby Rowan—oh crap, the room is spinning—and I wouldn’t have drunk so much tonight. My stomach convulses.
Fuck.
I’m going to be sick.
I try to move.
Too late.
That’s vomit on Graham Carson’s lap.
He scrambles for a wastebasket and holds it beneath me, keeping the hair off my face. Over and over again my stomach contents shoot into the can. I can’t stop it. It’s draining. I’m panting. Tense. Waiting for the next round. Nothing. Is it done? How long have I been throwing up with Graham holding me? Oh God, how am I ever going to face this guy again?
He sets the trash aside.
I collapse to lie in a ball with my face against his thigh.
My breathing is ragged.
His fingers in my hair are gentle.
My lids grow heavy.
“I should go back to my room,” I choke out, finding it hard to say the words.
He adjusts my body from its fetal position into something more comfortable for me.
“Sleep, Kaley. Just sleep,” he murmurs. “That’s what you need now. I’ll figure out in the morning how to smooth this over with your dad. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Right now you just rest.”
Graham Carson is such a good guy.
He’d be a wonderful boyfriend, if I wasn’t in love with Bobby.
Bobby—I close my eyes and drift away…
Part Two
Kaley’s Dream
“Rewind”
CHAPTER 28
It started as a joke. Just something I worked on one night after learning the last girl from my sorority clique was getting married. I really didn’t do it out of spite or resentment. I didn’t even do it because I polished off a full bottle of Zinfandel that night. It’s just how I fill my evenings when there is nothing better to do: design a blog page, give it a name—How to Train Your Fembot—and start to post.
Who would have ever thought this page would take off the way it has in the past six months and who would have thought there were so many vain guys out there looking to bag a Fembot?
I don’t really think of my sorority sisters as fembots, any more than I think of myself as the token brunette. Sure, I was the only brunette in the clique inside my sorority of rich hotties at USC, but that was totally random and had nothing to do with this being California.
I don’t really resent them all landing their super-duper great guys, marching down the aisle into their oh-so-perfect lives. I had a super-duper great guy. I just didn’t marry him. Oh well, that’s another story for another day and a different blog. Tonight, I haven’t finished teaching overachieving men how to achieve their fembot-perfect wife.
Rule #477: If you want to make the Fembot crawl to you, figure out who her best friend is, and then flirt her up. As much as they pride themselves on ‘the sisterhood’ the second the BFF’s back is turned, she’ll make her move.
My fingers pause and I stare at the screen.
You ought to know rule #477 in spades, Kaley Stanton.
It’s what got me into my current mess. I’m so stupid to have fallen for that one, and definitely over a player like Graham Carson. Graham could write this blog probably better than I do. He made his way through my sorority sisters with a slick-talking, velvet-encased machete.
Damn. It was a mistake, misplaced female competitiveness, and it cost me Bobby Rowan. I wonder where Bobby is these days. Two years. I never expected not to hear from him for two years, despite the fact that he was very emphatic, in an oh-so-not Bobby way, that we were over after I foolishly confessed to a pointless, drunken one night stand with Graham, thinking that truth would make it all something I could fix.
I take a hearty sip of my wine. I called that one wrong. I definitely have no one to blame but myself. And I definitely deserve to be home alone on a Saturday night writing my pitiful blog post.
I open the drawer in the bedside table and pull out my secret scrapbook. God, I’ve become like one of those lonely cat-ladies, one of those girls with secret scrapbooks, bitchy blogs, and dateless weekend nights.
I start flipping through the pages. As sad as I feel, the pictures make me smile. There is just something so right about how Bobby and I look together. I felt it the first day I met him. We were meant to be, a perfectly imperfect forever kind of couple.
I’ve never been able to imagine myself with someone else. I’ve loved Bobby Rowan since I was seventeen and, up until two years ago, he was also my best friend.
I refill my wineglass, put away the scrapbook and turn on the TV. I’m restless tonight. I should sleep, but there is something frantic and twitchy running through me. A feeling of lack of completion, of loss, and of need.
How long does it take to get over a guy? Maybe it would happen faster if I could find someone interesting and occasionally enjoy that sex thing again. How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid? I try to remember. I can’t. That’s how long it’s been.
God, I always miss Bobby the most on nights like these: alone, blogging, thinking, and drinking.
Ding. I look at my laptop screen. Shit. I forgot to log off, but then again, I never get any chats or comments on this blog except from my one virtual fan who randomly has been dropping in the last six weeks. A lot of people read it, the traffic numbers are very good, but no one wants to admit it by commenting that they visit the site. It’s that kind of thing.
I click open the chat box. OK, what does my cyber groupie have to say to me tonight?
Love-struck Trainer: Instead of posing as a somewhat humorous, sarcastic, devil-may-care princess to hide your bitterness, why don’t you tell guys something useful? How do you get over losing the perfect girl?
My entire body goes cold from head to toe. Is that how I come off? A somewhat humorous, sarcastic, devil-may-care princess to hide my bitterness. If that’s true, I’ve sunk so low. My hands rise and hover over the keys.
Rapidly I type: I’ve been told that my comments are witty and funny.
I hit send and wait.
Ding: A non-denial denial. Why won’t you answer the question? Or can you only dish out and not be helpful?
I really shouldn’t respond. I’ve had too much to drink but, fuck, there is something in his first question really hitting home right now. How does this stranger in cyber land know exactly what I’m feeling today? Maybe, it is obvious.
Click, click, two words: You don’t.
Crap. What made me say that? An honest answer. Exactly what I had just been thinking.
For some reason, I am suddenly fully alert, plugged in and engaged in this random moment with a virtual stranger. I stare at the screen. Waiting. Waiting.
Ding: Is that why you’re bitter? You lost the perfect guy?
I rapidly respond: Nope. I lost the perfect imperfect guy.
Love-struck Trainer: You are witty and funny.
I bite my lip, feeling a smile trying to take shape, and then the chat box announces he’s left. That’s it? Gone. Love-struck is usually good for at least an hour of diversion.
I log off my blog, switch off the light, and go to sleep.
I’m late. Sunday hangover always equals Monday late. I really need to stop that Saturday night drinking and blogging shit. It’s no way for a twenty-five-year-old girl to live. Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me?
I hit the button for the garage door to open and wait impatiently for it to lift. Why does everything near the ocean move at a snail’s pace, even the garage door? I put the car into reverse, back into the driveway, hit the button and wait for the door to fully close in case Muffin the cat is lurking and decides to slip in. If the garage sensor pops the door open again, there is no telling what I’ll find within, leaving a house open all day in Malibu.
OK, you can close anytime.
While I wait, I study the stunning beachfront concrete and glass structure. It really makes me feel like a fraud to live here. Struggling independent filmmakers should live struggling lives if they want their art to be good. But then, the house was vacant since Dad finally married Mom shortly after my eighteenth birthday, and finding livable conditions for manageable rent in Southern California is just a bitch.
The house may cost me nothing, but there is rent. It may not cost US dollars to live here, but I do have to live with the memories, the memorabilia, and history contained within the walls of the Malibu house. I’m not talking about the photos of my parents, but the legacy of lovers that is always present within the rooms. Dad loved Mom here. Mom left Dad from here. And I live alone without Bobby here.
The door closes and I start to ease carefully from the driveway. Second battle of the day: getting onto Pacific Coast Highway during the commuter rush without getting hit. I merge into traffic and again everything is moving at a snail’s pace.
I pull into the drive-thru Starbucks to grab a morning tray of coffee for my creative team. I hit the notes icon on my iPhone, where I artfully conceal the list of everyone’s preferred drink. It’s a nice touch to always get it right, and it’s the little things that seem to keep the team humming happily. It sure isn’t the money I pay them since, according to my business checking account balance, I really am a struggling independent filmmaker.
If not for capital injections from Dad, my start-up film company would have folded long ago. I pull up to the window to pay.
“Thirty-seven dollars, twenty-eight cents,” the barista announces.
“Really? I only ordered six drinks. I’m not buying Starbucks.”
The girl doesn’t laugh. OK, so this isn’t one of my wittier and funnier moments but, heck, I’m in a rush and I’ve got a headache today. I rummage through my purse for a credit card.
I smile as I hand it to her. “Thank you.”
No response. Monday, Monday, Monday: they seem to bring out the worst in everyone. I wonder if the barista would notice if I started to secretly film her. There’s got to be a story in this and that’s what I do, film little bits of this and that all through the day until the next great documentary inspiration strikes. I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. Nope, better not try it. This girl looks pissed.
My credit card is shoved back at me and I have only a moment to drop it on my dash before I have to grab the tray closing in on me.
“Thank you,” I say.
Nothing. Not even a smile. Maybe I should start another blog: How to Train Your Barista. I put my car into gear and pull out of the drive-thru lane. That’s one of the things I miss about Bobby; he’s the only person I’ve ever known who always thought my quirky sense of humor was funny. I admit, I’m an acquired taste.
Thirty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot in front of the shabby industrial space that houses my fledgling company, KKK Productions. Another mistake of my quirky sense of humor, the KKK thing that started back in high school when I started to sell my hand-painted Vans on the Internet: Kaley’s Kustom Kicks. I thought it was memorable—KKK—but I guess it wasn’t one of my smarter branding moves because sometimes I get the most interesting mail from viewers who’ve seen one of our documentaries. And the KKK thing is definitely misinterpreted.
I pull my cross-body purse over my neck and scoop up the drink tray. Note to self: learn to contain quirky sense of humor when making business decisions.
I push with my hip through the double glass doors and pause at the reception desk.
“Morning, Veronica. Is everyone here?” I ask, setting the tray down and searching for the soy latte.
“They’re in the conference room,” she informs, smiling as I hand her the coffee. “You’re late. Rough weekend?”
I force my expression into something I hope looks saucy. “The roughest kind.”
Veronica laughs. “I’m free for lunch if you want to tell me about it. Mine was totally dull.”
“I never kiss and tell,” I counter with heavy meaning.
I grab the tray and continue down the short hallway to the back office we’ve converted into a conference/screening room. Struggling to balance the tray in one arm, I open the door and the room quiets.
“Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” I say in a rush, moving quickly toward my seat. “Traffic,” I add lamely, wondering why I felt it necessary.
Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest person in the room and it still feels kind of strange to sign paychecks. Or maybe because someday they are going to figure out that I haven’t a clue what I’m doing and haven’t since the first moment I took over this defunct production company and inherited this team.
The business acquisition was a mistake, it was too burdened with debt and I should have listened to my dad about that, but I was excited about starting my career after graduation and the team is definitely a winner. I may not like each and every one of them, but I respect them, they are enormously talented and I’m getting great on-the-job CEO/documentary-filmmaker training here.
I smile and start to hand out the coffee drinks. I pull out a notepad from my bag and it gets a few funny stares. All around the table are laptops and tablets. I like paper, so shoot me. I grab a pen and start to tap it on the scarred wood table.
A sheet of paper is shoved across the table at me. “Should we start at the top of the agenda?” Justin asks.
I quickly scan the list. Jeez, there are a dozen bullet points here. Who has time for that much meeting? Too much discussion with every gathering of the creative team. No wonder this company released too few projects and went bankrupt.
I stop tapping the pen. “I would prefer just to view the latest cut and go straight into the postmortem.”
A flash of irritation shows in Justin’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue and the lights are quickly turned off and the latest version of our documentary begins to play. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the table, chin in my hands, carefully dissecting it frame by frame almost as if I can slow it down to edit speed and view it piece by piece. It still doesn’t feel right. Not even after the latest cut. It’s close, but not quite there. Damn, this should be finished by now. We need finished projects to start pulling in dollars.
The documentary ends and the room is silent. It’s not right. I try to digest what I’m feeling into words that won’t offend. I run my fingers over the top of my head and fill them with a tight scrunching of black curls.
“I don’t like the title,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And it’s not right, how we’ve cut this. It just feels out of sequence, almost like we’re manipulating the images and injecting opinion rather than just showing the story.” I close my notepad. “It needs to go back to editing and we really need to think of a new title. Ghosts of Stockton Boulevard just doesn’t do it for me.”
Silence. I hate it when everyone holds back speaking their mind. Or worse, when they do it without including me. We’re a team, an equal voting team. Someone just say I’m wrong and get it over with. I shift my eyes to fix on Justin.
“I think it’s an excellent piece of finished work, as is,” he says. “What don’t you like about the title?”
“We’re making a film about sex trafficking in urban California and we’re calling these women ghosts. It’s demeaning, like they are somehow invisible and valueless. I don’t want them to be ghosts. I want them to be seen.”
He pauses to consider my comment. He leans forward into the desk, toward me.
“Then we’ll come up with something new,” Justin agrees. “And the latest cut?”
“Let’s go back to editing this afternoon. I’ll have an outline of changes I want to make by then.”
The meeting quickly ends after that. I’m relieved that it didn’t turn into a three-hour argument session. Maybe I’m getting better at leading the team. That was almost too easy.
I stare up at Allie, my assistant, as she begins to clean up the room.
“Am I wrong? Just tell me if I’m wrong, Allie. I trust you the most here.”
Allie smiles, pauses in her task, and looks flattered over my confession. “You’re not wrong, Kaley. You’ve got a vision. Follow your gut. At the end of the day it’s your name and reputation that walks out the door with every documentary.”
“Follow my gut, huh? My gut says that it’s not right.”
“Then it’s not right and we go back to editing.”
I nod. It was what I was going to do anyway, but it’s nice to have a little support. I lean back into my chair, shaking my head. “You’ve known Justin a long time. Why does he dislike me so much? I’m just trying to produce quality work and keep the company out of bankruptcy.”
“Ah, maybe because you’re drop-dead gorgeous. Justin thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and you’re not interested. That could have something do with his attitude.”
I blush. “Is that all you ever think of? The relationship thing?”
Allie laughs. “Pretty much. Once you’re married that only leaves meddling in other women’s love lives.”
I gather my things from the table. “Well, stop meddling in mine. I’m spoken for.”
